You could walk for most of a mile before reaching the woods. The grass was high now. And seeing as I’d worked all day on the hay wagon with Papa, it sure felt good just to know that evening chores were done, and I could lie on my back in the soft grass and do nothing except wait for evening. Pinky was with me, and she was lying down too. Even though she hadn’t put in a lick of work all day. But there she was, a mound of white pig in a whole field of purple clover and kickweed. Here and there was a stand of wild paintbrush. Most of it yellow, and some red. It didn’t seem to want to mix with the clover, and it just kept to its own kind. The whole hillside was purple clover; and in the early sundown, it looked more purple than I’d ever see it. Pinky was rolling in it. Over and back, over and back. I knew it felt good to her, because I was lying in it myself, and the clover felt right and good to me. The clover was getting ripe now, and you could take a big red-purple ball of it in your hand, and pull out the flower shoots.
What do You think about A Day No Pigs Would Die (2000)?
